


To Make A Set of Wings

by AristocatSlippers



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Original Works - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 02:32:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12546852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AristocatSlippers/pseuds/AristocatSlippers
Summary: Kallima Cho has always wanted to disappear, not to die, to disappear. There are many stories of people disappearing, whisked away by magical creatures. She doesn't really believe in faeries at all. When she meets some though, she does. And she begs them to make her what she has always desperately wanted - wings.





	1. Chapter 1

One of the things I wanted the most has always been wings. I envied the birds that soar overhead in their freedom, as a flightless creature such privilege has always been denied to me. Even so, I cannot help wishing. I know many different ways to make a wish, none of which have ever been proven to work; in your heart, in your head, say a prayer, a wishing well, one thousand paper cranes, a shooting star, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Testing my luck on pennies and four leaf clovers, I longed to disappear. Have you ever heard of faeries? They don't exist but sometimes I wish they did. They whisk you away when you wander too far into the woods, they feed you, dance with you, play you music, welcoming you into their arms. It feels like they're stealing your soul but it stays right there in your hands (it's almost like it's visible to see). There are moments when you walk along a path to the sound of whirring cars and wonder Will they take me now? They don't of course - they won't unless you wish hard enough. You have to be suffocated and wish a thousand times before they take you, even then only if its on their whim.

I walked past that well every day on my way to school, always a penny in the well and the same silent wish. Sometimes, those common times when I wasn't alone, one of those friends would ask why I always threw a coin in a well. Normally I'd just laugh, a wish was a wish wasn't it? They'd nod and ask what I wished for. Puffing out a breath of warm air, I smile at them now it wouldn't come true if I told you, would it? On particularly cold days like today, the breath that escapes between my lips, past the finger touched to them, mists into tiny icicles. _I think it looks like magic,_ they shake their head and disagree. Shivering into my coat against the wind, I tighten the scarf around my neck then set one foot in front of another. They follow and we slowly stroll towards the school, away from my wishing well. As we walk along, underneath the snow-covered bare branches of trees they chatter animatedly, telling a story about what their brother did yesterday. I crack a joke at them and they grin, a twinkling laugh bubbles up from their throat, the sound bounces round the empty street. I think this looks like magic too, but this time I don't say it.

When we reach the gates I wave goodbye at them, heading to a different class. The window seat always has such a pretty view of the sky. I should be listening to the teacher as he drones on about some play that I've forgotten the name of, though I much prefer the cloud watching my place provides. The paper meant for taking notes looks much better folded into paper cranes, how many have I made I wonder? I've made a thousand cranes more than once, just to make that wish, but the crinkling sounds draws the teacher's eyes to me; he goes silent and waits for my attention. He must've grown impatient because he snaps at me, _won't you stop that?_ My hands go still when I look at him and nod, so he turns away to restart his lecture. I still don't take any notes, but I notice one of the clouds looks like a flower. At some point they crack with thunder and a heavy downpour begins. It pounds on the window pane, a repetitive steady thud that's sort of pleasant. It's like a little comfort as the sound pulses in my ears.

It's still raining by the end of the class and I hurry to escape the room. I'm glad I brought my umbrella, for all that I like the rain it's been freezing today. Getting ill doesn't sound like much fun. It's still windy too, every gust blows my umbrella in a different direction, every now and then it turns inside out. Momentarily I lose my protection; though only until I point it towards the wind which blows it back, _maybe the wind is a neutral power._ There's no one around to hear me mutter to myself, outside or in the empty house I retreat to. Closing the door, I shake it out into the hall, not much bothered by the wetness of the floor. Dumping my bag on the ground, I grab a book from the shelf before flopping onto my soft bed. Reading it feels like going on an adventure, as if I'm some place else. Still, I cannot help staring at the empty ceiling.

Eventually I've lain there so long that it seems impossible to do so anymore. That overwhelming restlessness builds up inside my limbs until I feel as though I'm about to burst, but there is nothing there for me to do. Outside's raging storm traps me indoors, needing something to distract myself from my cage, I spring up and wander to the kitchen. My stomach's been growling at me for hours now I should probably listen to it... Despite my attempts to, when I rifle through the cupboards I can't find anything that I want to eat. It all looks the same, tins of soups and packet noodles, nothing very appetising. Eying the flour at the back, I'm struck by the thought of making pastry before giving in to its temptation. I pull out all the ingredients for a quiche, setting them neatly on the dark wood table then starting to work. As an afterthought, I go looking for the old CD player hidden somewhere in my room. Something about the static of the speakers is strangely charming to me, different to when I play it on my phone (even though the songs are the same). _Any cooking needs good music to accompany it,_ when I finally find the album I'm searching for I press play and music booms around me - I don't resist the urge to dance clumsily, singing along. 

Rubbing the fats in takes ages, by the time I'm finished the clock's hands have clicked onto the next hour and sticky dough coats my fingers. Rolling out the dough has always been my favourite part, it's disappointing that it takes just a few moments to be big and wide enough to spread over the pie dish. Once I've set the oven to preheat I sit down to chop onions. They smell earthy (this is how I know the farmers market sells them freshly picked) as well as pungent enough to make my nose wrinkle and eyes water. After a while of stinging tears I decide it's worth wiping them away. The water that I splash my face with is joltingly cold, when I lift my head to look in the mirror green eyes stare back at me blankly. They're not my own - changed from my usual blue - but black hair and a soft, freckled nose still frame them. I can't explain why their hue is different, _it's better just to forget about it then._ I blink and they're blue again. Shoving it to the back of my mind, I go back to chopping vegetables, all my concentration focussed on the task.

A slamming sound makes me jump, subconsciously I know it's just my Dad coming home from work and shutting the door behind him, but I'm still startled by it. The motion causes my hand to slip so instead of slicing a red pepper I slice my finger - although the blood is a strikingly similar shade of scarlet. Looking carefully, it's not that deep a wound even if it hurts. Whilst I look for a plaster in the kitchen drawer I listen to the heavy footsteps in the hall. A moment later he sticks his head round the door, eyes widening when he notices and asks what happened "You scared me, I cut my finger when I was meant to be cutting veg." I smile gratefully as he pulls a plaster out of his pocket, wrapping it around my finger. When he's done I wiggle it in front of his face to signal it's all better, revelling in the light laugh that it brings about. "So, Kallie what's for dinner? I can see you're making something," I don't answer his question, grinning when he sticks his tongue out at me. It's a childish exchange and that's exactly the reason I love it. Turning on his heel, he leaves to go change meaning I should get back to making my quiche. By now I'm starved and work quickly to finish it.

The time on the clock is 7:30pm when I put the dish in the oven to cook, I hadn't meant for it to be quite so late yet it had gotten so. Briefly considering leaving the dirty equipment, I throw the thought away; cleaning up is always easiest straight after whilst you wait for it to cook. There are suds all over my arms by the time I move on to drying the dishes and putting them away. Lightning flashes in the window; surprised, I drop the glass bowl in my arms. For a few panicked seconds I believe that it will smash, shattering into shards that will scatter everywhere. However, all it does is land with a thud, it's a sturdy bowl - not even a crack when I pick it up. Relieved, I let out a long breath before I inhale it sharply again. Out of the corner of my eyes I see something dart back amongst the trees that line each side of the street. Thunder roars nearby and I draw the curtains shut. 

Unable to shake the image of that something amongst the trees from my mind, sleep that night is an unattainable treasure. If it came, it would surely be a precious jewel; I cannot sit still long enough to find it. Underneath the blankets I toss and turn, kicking them off. It's pointless trying to sleep, and when I stand to look out the window the rain has finally stopped. The rain clouds have cleared leaving a crescent moon and stars for me to gaze at. I know I probably shouldn't since it's dangerous at night, but going for a walk seems rather appealing to me. Maybe I just like the night time air, something about the darkness is comforting to me, how the streetlights that glow orange in it mean it's not completely black. But it's not so light that it's blinding either. _It's pretty._ Without bothering to change out of my pajamas, I go searching for my rain boots and coat. I find the boots underneath the radiator in the hall, they're flower patterned and smaller than I remember. Squeezing my feet in isn't painful but it's not exactly comfortable either. Perhaps they'd fit if I took off my fluffy socks, I like them though so I leave them on. Pulling the navy coat off the rack, I slip it on with the fur rimmed hood over my head for warmth. Gingerly I open the front door and tiptoe out; careful to be quiet, waking my father wouldn't be very kind. 

Once outside I take a deep breath, letting the biting air fill my lungs and push out earlier's suffocation. Through the empty night time streets my feet quietly guide me, there's no need for me to think where I'm going; I've already worn the path there into the ground and into my mind. The flower-ridden, tree-speckled field I end up in is far removed from the city lights. Below one of the larger oak trees is a handmade swing, built from two sturdy ropes and a thick plank of wood as well as a rope back I made for it so I could lean back in it. It hangs from the most secure branch possible, sheltered from the rain by orange-y red autumn leaves above it that mean it's still dry when I sit on it. How long it's been there I'm not really sure of, for as long as I can recall I've been going to swing on it but I'm not the one who made it. That person is probably long gone now, when I first found it it looked old and unused. Once when a storm blew it down I fixed it, it still isn't my swing though. My pocket contains a match box to light the little lantern I placed on a nearby branch when I was younger, until I stuff my icy fingers in it, I'd nearly forgotten about them. I light the lantern and watch the flame for a moment. Flickering flames like this never cease to mesmerise me, it casts shadows in the design of roses onto the bark of the tree, copying the metal work of the lantern. Settling back on to the wooden seat, I kick my feet off the ground and sway like a pendulum. 

If I gaze up at the midnight sky, I can see the constellations of stars gently shining. My favourite is Gemini, I love the myth of Pollux and Castor. It says that after the mortal Castor died, his immortal twin brother, Pollux, begged Zeus to help him. So Zeus turned them into stars so they could both be with each other. I wonder if I'll ever have so deep a friendship as that. The stars have always been a love of mine. I fall asleep watching them and dream. Music - played by a flute I think - floats through my ears when I sleep. I can't quite tell if I'm dreaming or not as it pervades my mind. To my ears, its lilting melody is rather beautiful; whoever the musician is I've never met someone so talented before. Further into the field I can see moving figures, they look to be dancing to the music and they chatter excitedly. I can see, even from this distance, that they're not human. Some wear flower petals for dresses whilst others are clothed in shimmering silk. Lithe bodies swirl around, drifting ever closer to me.

They come in varying sizes and colours, short and tall, fat and thin, blue, green, purple, pink, yellow, black and white. Three or four have horns, a few have wings and the rest seem somewhat humanoid. I'm reminded that they're not truly human though; fireflies float up from the slowly unfurling hand of one of the figures. Specks of light that fill the open air and hover around the gathering. Every time they open and close their fist more appear, they swell into a swarm that illuminates the inky black. There's enough light to cast shadows and the figures use it to make finger puppets, strange shapes that contort into images that tell a story. To me, they seem so free and careless, no constraints on their laughter and completely at ease. _I'm just slightly jealous of them._ Jealous of them when one bends down and cups a daisy in his hand, blowing gently on it. The petals change shape, becoming wider and curling around each other. White turns to red, looking like ink chromatography as it does. The stem grows longer before all changes stop. He plucks it easily from the ground and reaches up to the one beside him. Pushes the rose into their hair then whistles. A butterfly comes fluttering to his finger in response, he places it in her hair along with the flower. It settles there, acting like an accessory, scaly wings glittering in the moonlight. _Just slightly jealous. ___

____

One of them comes right by me, stumbling and falling. I reach out my hand to help it up but when it tries to take it, its hand passes straight through my own. In that moment, I realise they are intangible to me - seeable but as of yet untouchable. I can't help but wonder why. For a second, I let my eyes roam back to the still flickering flame in the candle of the lantern. I stare and then turn my eyes back to the figures; only I find they're gone. Disappeared in a slip of the mind. Knowing that they were only either a figment of my imagination or part of a dream, I let my eyelids close and slowly drift back to sleep. That's if I ever left it. 

"Kallima!" an accusing voice wakes me up. Eyes cracking open I find Charlotte in a grey uniform standing over me. An angry expression stains her pretty face, it's understandable "Were you planning on just ditching school today? We have a presentation to give and you were just going to sit here all day, weren't you?!"  
She grabs my arm and drags me up, heading towards my house. Pleadingly, I beg Austin to save me from her wrath with my eyes but he just chuckles at the mud and leaves in my hair from when I fell off the swing during the night. Following suit as my protesting legs are forced into life, he's right behind us. I hadn't planned on missing school or staying out all night, I just finally fell asleep. Charlotte informs me that it's 9am and by the time we get to school we'll be an hour late. _Why didn't you just leave me then? You didn't have to wait._ Austin shakes his head at me in amusement but the thought sets Charlotte off again. Exploding with "Of course we'd wait of you! We're not awful friends you know!" I nod in agreement to appease her - they did know where to find me, after all. It still doesn't justify them being so late. 

When we get to my house she pulls out a key which I'm sure she shouldn't have and unlocks the door. Then she sends Austin off in search of a towel and my uniform whilst she shoves me in the bathroom. Ordering me to shower, (specifically to be quick about it) she wanders off to do who knows what. Turning on the hot water, I adjust the settings to the right temperature - stripping off once I have. The mud on my face washes off quickly but my hair takes more work; it's all a tangle of wildlife that takes at least ten minutes to comb through with my fingers. The door opens briefly as Austin throws a towel in for me, he squeaks awkwardly as he does. Muttering an apology he closes the door behind him. Stepping out a few minutes later, I wrap it around me then go into my bedroom. Neatly folded on my bed is the grey school uniform. Putting it on quickly, I hurry downstairs. From the kitchen, the scent of pancakes wafts through the air making me realise just how hungry I am. A plate full of pancakes is set in front of my seat. Charlotte and Austin are already digging into their own. 

Wet hair drips down my back as I eat, making me uncomfortable. Their stares are just as unsettling - when they act like this it feels as though they're my parents. Silently, Austin hands me a brush and hair tie which I use to put my hair up into a messy bun. It's good enough. Charlotte hands me my bag - she even packed it for me - then grabs my wrist to drag me out the door again.

We stumble into religious class late, earning an eyebrow raise as well as a questioning from the teacher. I lie to her, saying that my Dad's car broke down when he drove us here so we had to walk instead. They still look unimpressed but it saves us from detention - that's all that really matters anyway. As punishment, she makes us give our presentation first. This consists of terrible acting. I grab two chairs placing them together and lie down on them. Pretending to be dead is difficult if you're laughing at the fact that you don't have enough actors. Eyes closed, I listen to Charlotte approach Austin in fake-panic begging him to save her daughter - in other words me. He comes over and grabs my hand, saying "Talitha Koum". In response I spring up, acting as though I were miraculously healed. Just to torture me further they make me give the explanation of the story; I at least try to keep the boredom out of my voice. "The story symbolises Jesus' power and authority from God to heal. Not only this but his compassion too. We learn that Jesus is kind and that he rewards the faith of those like Jairus."  
The teacher nods at us, an indicator that we're finally done. I'm relieved to able to sit down, exhaling loudly as I do. 

 

School holds very little interest to me - I pay enough attention to pass and that's about it. Today however, I can't focus at all. The strange dream stays at the forefront of my mind. My lack of concentration gains me the detention I so narrowly missed before. It's my maths teacher who finally gets mad enough to dish it out. During his class I'm staring out the window again. Watching the birds soar away, they fly so gracefully that I can't help being enraptured by them. They look beautiful as they fly away from here towards the sun. Never close enough to be burnt, never coming crashing back down to Earth like Icarus. Their wings touch the candyfloss clouds - I'm so distracted by imagining what it must feel like that I don't notice the teacher calling on me to answer a question. He's right up in my face before I look at him, anger creating flecks of spit that go spraying from his tongue as he speaks. Behind me, Austin and Charlotte are giggling softly, attempting to muffle it with their hands. I turn around briefly, glaring furiously - traitors. They only laugh harder. The teacher becomes more infuriated with this action then sticks me with an after school detention. I decide to pay attention for the rest of the class.

Lunchtime is lonely, both Charlotte and Austin have club obligations that leave me on my own. It matters little to me - I am not the centre of their lives nor them mine. Luckily for me, the library has a wide array of books to choose from so I'm not at all bored. I choose a fantasy one, snuggling into one of the reading corner's bean bags for an hour. Lost in another world, the bell snaps me out of my reading fest. Since I enjoyed it so far, I check it out of the library. Practically sprinting to homeroom, I make it there just before my name is called on the register. My next classes don't involve my friends so the time moves endlessly slow. However, I at least manage not to stockpile any more detentions.

My mess of a maths teacher chooses to make me tidy his classroom as retribution for not listening. There are far too many empty boxes and worksheets scattered around. He can't even keep the tables in line with each other. How frustrating. I consider saying no and walking out but think better of it. Winter's shortened days mean it's already dark when I'm finished - winter already and it's only October. Even Charlotte and Austin have left, so I wander home on my own. The stars are out though so I can at least appreciate how pretty they are. Dark streets are filled with the light orange glow of streetlamps. Except for the tapping of my footsteps, they're eerily silent. This silence isn't unusual though - it's an empty street. As I near my house I can hear a sound. I think it's singing but I can't make out the words. They must be in another language. Drawn to it, I change direction to follow the melodic sound. Rounding a corner, I come to a halt; standing in front of me is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Her skin is a pastel purple colour that compliments the blue of her dress. The dress is made of moving water, shifting like currents and rushing over her tall, slim (but not skinny) body like a waterfall. Golden hair sits in a perfect line down her back, running over the crystal wings that flutter there gently. She turns to me with flecked green and golden eyes shining the same colour as the sun and stretches her hand toward me. Somehow I can understand what she says - she's singing about disappearing. I take her hand but blink as I do. In that second she, herself, has disappeared and my opportunity is lost. 

A cold wind blows onto my back, I push my face deeper into my scarf. One foot in front of the other I continue the journey home. Upon entering the house I take off my shoes then wander upstairs. I curl up into my bed and sleep soundly. I feel completely exhausted.


	2. Chapter 2

Near where I live there's a wide river with an old stone bridge rising high over it. Running my hands along its sides results in moss and dirt covering my hands. At the top of the arch, above the keystone, I stop to stare down at the thrashing waters. They're a murky green colour with a swirling current that quickly moves bobbing driftwood down it. Fish, minnows I believe, swim just beneath its surface, heads occasionally breaking through before they duck underneath again. I climb atop the side of the shallow walls, holding tightly with both hands as I sit on it. I've often wondered what it would be like to sit in a little boat and float down it; where the current would take me if I let it. What kind of power is the water? Kicking my legs in the air, I imagine myself simply letting go and falling - then I push it away; that's not how I wanted to disappear. If I were to disappear it would be on the wings of a dove, I could fly far away from here to anywhere I wanted. Letting go would make my disappearance a matter of moments; my freedom, if I ever gain it, would be born of wings not water. 

Pulling myself away from that whirlpool of thought, I climb back down onto the bridge. Feet once again steady, I resume my wandering. At the other side some ways down the road is the outdoor market, it stays open no matter the weather but today at least the shopkeepers won't be so grumpy. They enjoy the soft sunshine as much as I do - sun-showers are my favourite though; I love the rainbows that form overhead when rays of light shine through little raindrops.

I love the market's pretty little stalls too, even if some only sell strange second-hand items that they claim are antique - although normally they're not exactly in mint condition. Where they get said "antiques" is somewhat of a mystery to me. It's bustling there today, full of background noise and half-familiar faces doing their shopping. The first stall I pass sells flowers, I never buy any - I don't even have a vase to put them in - but I can never seem to help myself from stopping to stare at them. 

The florist who sells them is an adept hand at arranging pretty bouquets. The old man must have been making them for a very long time. I wonder if he ever makes them based on the meanings of the flowers or whether he just makes them to look wonderful. I wouldn't know, I don't know their meaning myself. I tug my bag back up onto my shoulder, smiling up at him as I leave. He smiles back at me. 

Among the hubbub of the market I'm a little lost, unsure of what I came for now that I'm here. There's a list in my pocket, groceries written on crumpled up paper. I do my best to smooth out all the crinkles, the inky pen I wrote it in is smudged but still legible:   
Five apples,  
Five oranges,  
Five bananas,   
A pound of grapes,  
A pound of strawberries,  
Ten carrots,   
Onions,   
Three peppers. 

It's a longer list than that but that's as far as I skim at first, it takes me a moment to find where I should buy them from. When I locate it, one of my classmates is at the register, a customer passes a bunch of coins into his hand, he counts it carefully then places it in the machine. They also give him a flower, a red orchid bought from the other stall. He beams up at the customer as they walk away with their brown paper bag of fruit and veg. I'd forgotten that his dad ran the grocery stall. When they're gone, he stares at the flower - puzzled until I distract him. 

Waving at him, I walk up to him, "Hi Michael." 

"Hey Kallima, what do you need?" His curly brown hair hides his eyes as he smiles, I half want to push it out of his face but he beats me to it. 

I quietly hand him the list, he reads it and starts grabbing what's stated, shoving it carefully into a paper bag for me. When he's done he gives me back the list so that I can continue with my shopping after I pay. I carefully fit them into my shoulder bag.

"Thanks. See you then," I'm about to go buy sugar and flour, along with anything else still on the list when I hear him. 

"Wait!" 

I stop in my tracks, twisting around to look at him. He looks ready to say something before glancing away from me for a second. Whatever it is, he doesn't say it.

After a pause he finally makes up his mind, "Did we have homework for chemistry?" 

I shake my head, "No," then turn back to shopping. I'd rather be home before the threatening grey clouds looming overhead become a steady downpour. It doesn't take particularly long for me to finish gathering what's on my list. Almost done, all I have left is my winter tradition of buying a handmade hat. Charlotte's grandmother makes them; her grandmother is a lovely old woman - she used to babysit me when I was particularly small. That was how I became friends with Charlotte, really. 

She's working there today, boredom sitting quietly on her face. There's a million places she'd rather be, I'm sure. Instead of being there she's just daydreaming about them, letting her silky auburn hair blow into her eyes. Charlotte doesn't even notice me browsing the hats. I rifle through the piles, slightly unsatisfied. They're nice hats but so far none of them are that special one I find every year. 

Re-folding the pile I messed up, I move onto the next one. A few hats down sits a light purple hat with a little white bird skillfully embroidered on the brim. It stands out to me so much that I choose it without a second glance at the rest. Charlotte jumps when I stand in front of her, dangling the hat in her face. 

"Hey! You scared me!" She reaches over the counter to jab my sides, I dodge away but she still manages to poke her finger into my ribs. I squirm uncomfortably and she laughs. She knows poking makes my body do something weird - it's exactly why she does it. 

I bat her fingers away, giggling as I do, "Stop that!" 

She keeps trying though. I do my best to put on a stern face, "Come on Charl, that tickles!" 

Sighing, she slides back over and stands behind the register again, nodding at the hat, "That's the one you're choosing?" She eyes it for a moment, thinking pout on her face. "It's pretty. The colours are very you - purple with white embroidery."

"It almost feels like Grandma had me in mind when she made this one..."

Charlotte chuckles, whipping the hat out of my hand and placing it on my head, "I wouldn't put it past Grandma. Hey! Have you seen the new jewellery stand?"

"I can't see anything, you pulled the hat over my eyes," I readjust it on my head and follow the direction she points in. I'm slightly surprised that I didn't notice it earlier, but it's not exactly flashy. Can't exactly blame me for being unobservant...

"Think you could check it out for me? I'm on shift all day and I want to know if they have any good or really unique pieces," she asks with her sweet as syrup voice. She always uses it whenever she wants anything, I really have to stop falling for it.

I groan in response; I'd rather go home than spend anymore time out here in the cold. Even with my coat the biting wind is starting to feel chilly. 

"You won't have to pay for the hat if you do."

And just like that, my mind is changed, "Deal. Now let's shake hands to show no going back on your word. This hat is free."

Charlotte laughs, firmly taking my hand in hers and wiggling it up and down. It's only to show how ridiculous I'm being but hey, I'm not the one paying for an expensive handmade hat. Jokingly saluting, I head off towards the new stand.

"Bye then!" she shouts behind me. 

Inside a glass viewing case there are lots of necklaces, rings, bracelets, tiaras and anklets - any accessory I could name and they'd have it, looking at the display I'm fairly certain of it. Some are silver and some are gold. They sparkle prettily, the dimming light reflecting off of coloured jewels. Not every design is as simple as that, a few twist intricately around the stones encased in them. I wonder whether they're real or fake...

As if reading my mind, the stall owner's attention snaps to me, "They're real if you're wondering, real diamonds, and real gold. Handmade too." 

I glance up at them, their piercing green eyes are just slightly unsettling. Somehow they almost look familiar. She seems candid enough, enough that I believe her anyway. Her pieces of jewellery are easily some of the highest quality I've seen. Then again, it's not like I'm a jewellery connoisseur. I can't help staring at them though, they're completely captivating... They're captivating but not unique and they're way out of Charlotte's price range anyhow. 

Still, I can't quite tear my eyes away. I don't even realise that my face is practically touching the glass until my breath mists it over and I have to wipe away the fog. A single wooden ring, carved wood twining around a small emerald, is what truly catches my eye. A hand reaches inside the display case, taking out the exact ring I was staring at. I can't afford it, even so, a pang of disappointment runs through me at the thought of someone else having that ring. 

Deciding it's about time I started on my way home, I stand up and pull my face away. I'm a few steps away, making a face and gestures at Charlotte to signal how expensive everything is, when I realise there'd been no one but me around. 

"Don't you want it?" She holds the ring between two fingers. 

"Yes, but I doubt I could afford it..." Without even knowing I'd moved, I'm back at the stall. 

She reaches over and pulls my hand toward her, "That's alright, you can take it," she drops the ring into my palm and closes my fingers around it. 

Stunned, I'm about to protest until I feel a drop of rain hit my head. I dart straight back to Charlotte, taking shelter under the waterproof fabric roof. "So, how long until you finish? This coat has no hood and I know you aren't gonna lend me your umbrella so I'll just wait and run to your place under it with you." 

She glances at her watch, "I'm here another hour even though there's no one around. And Kallima, you're wearing a hat, you don't need a hood or an umbrella..." 

"You know you make a very good point. Enjoy the rest of your shift then!" I sprint home as quickly as my slow legs will take me. I don't particularly want wet groceries. 

Somehow they're dry when I dump them on the table and begin organising. It's a shame the cupboards are such a mess, it means I have to organise them too. I have no idea what my Dad does but he always seems to leave everything in disarray. I find myself stacking tons of peas and beans for the good part of an hour before I'm all done. 

Satisfied, I shove my hands in my pockets, scrutinising everything one last time. One of my hands brushes the ring, I'd almost forgotten about it. I turn it over and over in my hand. Up close, I can see even better how well carved it is. It looks like the roots of a tree twining over a mossy green rock. I slip it on my ring finger and go to check my planner. If I do all my homework on a Saturday night it leaves Sunday free. 

There's not much written down, much to my joy. There is, however, chemistry homework...


End file.
